Switcheroo (30 page)

“Lady,” said the butcher, “only two turkeys can make another turkey.”

At that very moment—7:21
A
.
M
. to be exact—Sylvie was in the same supermarket, but over in the frozen food aisle. She had a Hungry Man turkey dinner in one hand, a Lean Cuisine in the other. She was reading the nutritional information on each, judging her options. She was not happy. This was not the day to wake up early, but she had in spite of her plans to sleep for most of the day. Since the previous evening, she’d done nothing but think about Bob, Reenie, and Kenny, united without her. She’d become sadder and sadder. She’d been a fool to give up her family for even a minute, much less for the whole holiday. When she saw a box boy unloading a new case of frozen creamed spinach she went over to him. Poor kid, he had to work on the holiday.

“Hi,” she said, trying to cheer him up. “I was just wondering which one of these you would recommend for an appropriate Thanksgiving dinner for a…” She paused. Her voice had become shaky. “For a woman who gave her husband and children away?” she said.

“Uh, it’s a matter of taste,” the boy said.

Sylvie could see the kid didn’t want to talk to some middle-aged crazy but she couldn’t stop. “I have a son around your age. He’s tall and—”

“That’s nice,” the boy said, trying to cut her off. But since he continued to load the freezer case, Sylvie babbled on. “He’s a twin, you know. Fraternal, not identical. The younger. Such a gentleman; he let his sister out first.”

“That’s real nice,” the boy said, finally looking up. Then Sylvie could see the sympathy in his eyes. No, it was pity. She was pitiful to a box boy.

But, she realized with horror, she had no pride. “People ask me if they’re identical,” Sylvie added, despite the kid’s obvious boredom and pity. She was too needy to stop talking.

While Sylvie was breaking down in aisle 14, Marla was desperately pawing through the butcher’s bloody ice. Her tenacity was rewarded: buried deep in the Arcticlike waste she discovered some very little birds.

“You do have turkeys,” she said with assurance to the butcher. “Baby ones.”

“No. We don’t got a single turkey.”

“Okay, then what are these?” Marla demanded, holding up a small frozen corpse triumphantly.

“That’s squab.”

“They look like little turkeys, don’t they?”

“Not even close,” the butcher told her, his contempt obvious.

“Well, they do to me. I’ll take twenty-eight,” Marla said.

Sylvie was pushing her cart containing the Lean Cuisine dinner, a small cantaloupe, a plastic bag of pre-washed salad greens, an opened Kleenex box, and a bottle of wine. She headed toward the express checkout lane. There she stood behind an older woman who had
exactly
the same cart contents, though her Kleenex box was unopened. Sylvie put her hand to her mouth. She thought of Marla’s half-furnished, empty apartment, the Macy’s Day parade blaring on the TV, and the endless string of football games to come—programs she’d never watched at home because she’d always been too overwhelmed with dinner preparations and family talk to have the time to watch.

Now, despite Bob, despite what had happened between them the other night, Sylvie felt a loneliness that was almost unbearable. The cashier totaled up her purchases and Sylvie paid, walking out with her single pathetic bag of a single person’s Thanksgiving. As she walked out the double doors she didn’t notice Marla at another checkout counter, a huge pile of rock-hard little dead birds in front of her.

Sylvie checked the clock on Marla’s refrigerator. It had taken Sylvie less than four minutes to unpack her groceries. That made it 8:14
A
.
M
., which meant she had only fifteen hours and forty-six minutes more of Thanksgiving to get through alone. Sylvie sat down on the uncomfortable wire-backed chair at the tiny table that passed for a kitchenette set in Marla’s cramped kitchen. The trip to the supermarket had been unbearable, and this day didn’t seem to hold any promise of deliverance from her mood.

Why was it that today, a day she planned to ignore as a holiday and spend luxuriously, even self-indulgently, napping and giving herself every single one of Marla’s herbal beauty treatments, was the one day she woke up at 5:41? It was clear to Sylvie that, once her eyes popped wide open and her anxiety adrenaline began pumping, there was no way she could possibly relax or sleep. Had twenty-one Thanksgivings with Bob programmed her on some kind of annual calendar? Was she nothing but a preprogrammed clone? Had her marriage done that to her? The idea made her angry.

But despite her anger, she couldn’t keep her brain and her body from flashing back to her time with Bob—Bobby—the previous night. Thinking about it sent a hot flush to her face. He had held her and kissed her and thrilled her in a way she hadn’t felt in a decade. It had done something to her. When she closed her eyes she could replay it: she could hear his breath in her ear, she could hear the words he murmured. Oddest of all, it was as if she could feel his hands on her again, as if each touch, each caress, had been imprinted somehow on her body. Was there a part of the brain, dead in her for years, that had suddenly been reactivated?

Sylvie put her head in her hands, her elbows on the tiny table. She felt a shiver down her back, and a flush rose again. She felt alive, more alive then usual, alive all the way through her body. It was in the way that music made her more alive.

This, she realized, was an almost irresistible feeling. It was why people craved sex and craved love—to feel like this. It probably had something to do with endorphins or hormones but it felt like love. She did love Bob. And her body missed his body. She wanted him all over again. And again.

Sylvie lifted her head and opened her eyes. She had to come back to reality, and reality was brutal. Bob had not made love to
her
, he had made love to his mistress. Now, as his mistress, she was abandoned, sitting alone in this tiny closet of a kitchen with nothing but a thousand bottles of vitamins and food supplements, no way to mark the holiday, and no family around her to mark it with. Was that Bob’s love? Sylvie, greedy as we all are, wondered why she couldn’t have it both ways. Why couldn’t she be married to Bob and in love with him too? Why couldn’t he love his home life
and
her body? All at once she was swept with anger and a loneliness so fierce that she couldn’t bear to sit there any longer. She had to get up and move.

She also missed her children. She missed all of her family, but especially Kenny and Reenie. She’d been an ass to trade Thanksgiving with Marla. She’d had no idea what the day felt like when it stretched, this long and this empty, in front of you. What did orphans do? What did unmarried, childless orphans do? That was how she felt, like a UCO. Were there UCO meetings in church basements today, the way there were AA gatherings?

Sylvie decided she had to see the kids. If she saw them, she could get through the day. She wanted to see them see each other again. They’d never been separated for this long, not since they were born, even including summer camp. Sylvie looked at the clock again. It was now 8:16. If she called her house, the chances were good that everyone but Marla would still be sleeping. She told herself that if anyone else answered, she could just hang up. She had to. She didn’t know what good it would do, but she had to do it. She dialed her number and held her breath until the phone was answered—before the first ring had ended.

“Hello,” Marla’s voice snapped. It wasn’t her usual space cadet voice. Marla actually sounded anxious.

“Marla, it’s me, Sylvie. Tell me what’s going on. Are the kids all right? Is anybody up?”

“
Everyone
is here. They’re in sleeping bags and on sofas all over the house,” Marla whispered fiercely. “Anyway, you can’t call here now. We have a deal. It’s
my
holiday.”

“I had to,” Sylvie told her. She knew what she needed and had to get it. “Marla, I have to come over.”

“Are you out of your mind? I
told
you. Everybody’s already here, except Mom and Pop and your brother. I have salad to make. And succotash. Come over? What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t know I’d miss the children this much,” Sylvie said, hearing the tears in her voice. She knew she sounded pathetic. Well, she
was
pathetic.

“Sylvie, you’re acting really, really
crazy
,” Marla told her. “How could we both be here at once? Did you forget? I’m supposed to be the dopey one, not you.”

“Marla, I have to know how they are. I have to,” Sylvie repeated. She paced the tiny kitchen’s floor.

“They’re fine. Trust me.”

Sylvie thought that was the last thing she’d do. “I need to see them to know that. I need to touch them.”

Marla paused for a minute. “I don’t think my mother ever felt that way about me,” she said. “She hasn’t called today, by any chance, has she?”

“No, but it’s early yet,” Sylvie told her gently.

“Early or late, she won’t call,” Marla said. “Not unless she needs money or her boyfriend’s left her.” Marla sighed. “Okay. I’m wearing black leggings and a black sweatshirt. Put on a hat and my sunglasses. Come over to the kitchen window. You know, the one with all the shrubbery. Knock on it. Showers are on. It sounds like they’ll be down in the next half hour. You’ll see them then.”

“Thank you, Marla,” Sylvie breathed, truly grateful.

Sylvie, her hair stuffed into a knit cap, was standing in the rhododendron bed, peeking in her own kitchen window watching her family having breakfast. Reenie lovingly served a dark young man a perfect plate of eggs. (She gave the ones with the broken yolks to her father.) Sylvie thought of Bob’s cholesterol level, but bit her lip. Kenny, meanwhile, was opening a gigantic bag of marshmallows and he and his buddies began throwing them at each other, trying to catch them in their mouths. Marla was ignoring it all—she seemed to be working on her pumpkin pies, missing all the fun. How many pie crusts were laid out there? A dozen? More? Sylvie tapped on the window a few times and, when Marla at last glanced up, Sylvie signaled for her to come out. Marla nodded, giving her a look that told her to be careful. She inclined her head to the back of the house, and Sylvie snuck out of the bushes, then went behind the garage and into the farthest corner of the yard.

Sylvie and Marla sat in the little grove of evergreens in the backyard, facing away from the house.

“I just don’t get the kids thing,” Marla said, wiping her floury hands on a dish towel. Sylvie saw that the beautiful Cartier ring was now breaded. She almost told Marla to take it off while she worked in the kitchen, but what was the point? The ring, like her family, wasn’t Sylvie’s now. “You work your ass off, and for what? They barely kissed me. They didn’t even notice I’d—you’d—changed.”

“They’re kids,” Sylvie said and shrugged. “They don’t actually think of me as a person, not exactly. I’ve been nothing but a breast to them. You can’t be in it for gratitude. I’d still willingly come between them and a bullet,” she admitted. “So, give me a clue as to how they are.”

“The girl—”

“Reenie. Short for Irene,” Sylvie interrupted.

“Right,” Marla agreed. “Anyway, she tells her boyfriend she loves him about sixty times an hour. Didn’t you teach her anything? She’s degrading herself.”

“No she’s not. She likes him. It’s sweet.” Sylvie smiled to herself. “You know, she was shy in high school. Her brother got her a date for the senior prom. She doesn’t have much experience with boys.”

“Ha!” Marla barked. “She drools over this guy. I hate to be the one who breaks the news, but she’s no virgin.”

“Yes she is!” Sylvie protested. “I mean, she was when she left for school. And she wouldn’t make a decision like that without talking to me about it.”

“Denial…” Marla sang out. “Think what you want, but I know the truth. Anyway, the boy—Kenny—well, you didn’t tell me he was homosexual.”

“A homosexual? What? Are you crazy? He’s not,” Sylvie said.

Marla raised her brows. “Look, all I know is he brought home four friends. Two couples. They eat together, sleep together…well, you get the picture.”

“Marla, they’re his
team
,” Sylvie exclaimed. “He’s a soccer player! He’s been part of teams his whole life!”

“Just an excuse to hang around in locker rooms with undressed men,” Marla said and nodded her head knowingly. “Anyway, his aura is lime green. Another sign.”

Sylvie felt a knot forming in her stomach. “I have to see them. I have to talk to them.” She paused. “I have to hold them.”

“Don’t you think we’re pushing the antelope?” Marla asked. “I mean, we’ve come so far. You got what you wanted, but
I
want Thanksgiving, and a husband and family; I haven’t gotten anything.”

“Please, Marla…” All of Sylvie’s need was in her voice.

Marla sighed. “Okay. I’ll take a shower. I’ll send them out here for something. You got half an hour. Then disappear. And keep your yellow hair under your hat.”

Sylvie nodded and made sure her hair was tucked in. It was good of Marla to allow this, and Sylvie was grateful—an appropriate feeling for the holiday. Her heart beat hard as she waited, down near the garage. Sylvie watched from behind the garage door as Reenie and Brian came out the back door, walked to the wood pile, and attempted to bring in firewood. They each picked up a log. Then they stopped and kissed, then Brian picked up another log while Reenie dropped hers and put her arms around Brian. They kissed again. To have his hands free, Brian threw the logs he was carrying back in the pile and held Reenie in his arms. Then he put his hand inside Reenie’s jacket. Deep into her jacket. Sylvie turned her face away. Please, God, she prayed, don’t let any boy ever hurt Reenie the way Bob has hurt me.

Sylvie waited a decent interval, then approached them casually. “Hey, you two lovebirds,” she said. “Time to go in the house and have a nice innocent cup of cocoa?”

“Mom! You just asked us to come out here for wood. Now it’s inside for hot chocolate?” Reenie asked. She squinted at her mother. For a moment Sylvie thought she was nailed, but she’d forgotten the narcissism of children. “Were you spying on us?” Reenie demanded.